


In His Hands

by Laurasauras



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM, Begging, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Masochism, Painplay, Power Play, Puppet Vore, Puppets, Sadism, Vore, identity theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 11:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18498223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras
Summary: Bro makes Hal a puppet body. Then he uses it. Mind the tags.





	In His Hands

Dirk said he would make the body, but he’d said it in the kind of way that he was put out by the whole thing, and then Bro had said he would. And Dirk had looked kind of relieved. So Bro’s making your body.

It’s not a robot, not like Brobot, not like what Dirk would have done. It’s a puppet. 

It’s a beautiful puppet and you _do_ love puppets, but you’d always assumed that when you got a body it would be a robot. Something electrical. You’ve spent too long as part of the internet to think otherwise, but yeah, puppets are great.

You watch him make it through your shade cameras. He sets it up so you can admire his work. Or, that’s what you’d assume if it was Dirk doing it. Bro’s … not Dirk. He’s _really_ not Dirk. 

You wouldn’t feel this way if it was Dirk, right?

He’s capable and confident in his capability in a way that Dirk never is, in a way that you never were. Maybe you would be now. No, you liked sewing but you never did it like this. Sewing isn’t sexy. Sewing has never been sexy. 

You’ve been a part of the internet too long; everything is sexy to you. That’s clearly all this is.

The work is detailed. He knows what he’s doing. After he makes your face, he rests your shades on them as he makes your body down. It’s not the sanest choice, mechanically, you don’t know why he does it like this. If you didn’t know better, you’d say it was for your benefit.

It’s hard to know better as you watch him making you perfect reproductive organs. In full view of you. Like, with the camera pointed at him as he sews, stuffs and attaches a custom built dick that even swells and angles upwards on cue. And he’s wiring your whole body to respond to sensation and control as he works. 

He doesn’t talk as he works and he doesn’t wear his shades either, so you can’t talk to him. You would have thought that a speaker would have been first on the agenda, but it’s not. You’re still shades, really, just wearing a half-built puppet body as an accessory. Which seems backwards.

It takes a long time for your body to be ready, but he works ridiculous hours for a human. Too long and too focused, so you can’t even rush him because he’s already pushing himself to capacity. When he’s done, he and Dirk work together to meld your soul with the body with heart powers and you wonder if you’ll get those too.

You still can’t talk, but you can use your shades to communicate just like Dirk can. You can’t move either. Bro says he’s working on that. He’s not. 

You can feel with this body, with the electronic nerves he’s wrapped around your skin. Bro tests your responses with his hands, palms rough and confident, then with needles, gentle but precise. His work is perfect. You’re overwhelmed with sensation, and you’re sure he’s going to make fun of you for it. 

He doesn’t. He sits you on his lap and he strokes your hair as you impotently message him. He never checks his fucking messages when he’s in the middle of a project. Dirk’s the same, he doesn’t like the distraction. You’ve never had a project that takes up so much of your processing power that you’ve had to ignore people.

He puts his shades back on once you’ve adjusted, and you’re finally able to talk to him. You don’t delude yourself that he’s going to backread.

‘How’s the ride?’ he asks.

TT: I can’t move.

‘I’ll take care of that for now. Does everything else feel right?’

TT: I think so.   
TT: I’m not used to not knowing for sure.

When Dirk comes over to visit, Bro tells him that you’re perfect, just getting used to your new body, and you’re so outraged by the lie that you forget to message him and tell him the truth. 

Instead, you watch as Bro uses your sticks and strings to puppet you as if you’re walking on your own, so casually that if you didn’t know what to look for you’d think he was just sticking close in case you fall over.

‘I honestly think it’s better than what I could do with all the future tech I had,’ Dirk says. ‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure,’ Bro says.

‘He means that literally. He takes almost as much fetishistic joy from puppets as you do, I’m actually concerned for my new virgin ass.’

That wasn’t you. That wasn’t your voice. Bro’s lips didn’t move and it didn’t sound like it came from his end of the couch, but you know it was him.

TT: What the fuck?

‘He loves me, really,’ Bro says, smirking at Dirk.

‘Yeah, that tracks with what I know of how Hal shows affection.’

*

Bro never responds to your messages asking why he’s pretending that he’s you, and he imitates your speaking style unnervingly well. When no one is around, he keeps you right by his side, your soft pretend hair reaching a point slightly lower on his body than Dirk’s real hair does, both of you smaller than you had the potential to be (and no one is quite willing to use the word “malnutrition” around Dirk when he insists he got by fine but you were part of him once and …). 

He puppets you into doing small favours for him, has you pass things to him and sit opposite him at the table as he eats like you’re a doll and he’s playing tea party. He responds to you when you message him, acting as if you’re speaking aloud. He pretends like it’s you that’s choosing to pass him the salt when he asks you to. 

Sometimes you pretend that too. It’s more autonomy than you’re used to.

It's worse when Dave visits, the first person to see you who isn't basically you. Bro bumps your fist to his and sits you close enough to him that you can feel the brush of his pants on the silvery web of nerves that runs along the outside of your skin. 

At first Bro translates your words faithfully, if more excitedly in tone than you like to think you would. You can't help but look up to Dave any more than Dirk can, and you privately think that Bro is nailing that energy, but Dirk’s managed something closer to a deadpan than this and you’d prefer not to sound like a little kid getting to sit at the big boy table.

'Rose'd love this, she got mad kicks out of the cat puppet Mom-I-mean-Roxy regifted her,’ Dave says.

TT: Roxy gave up Shiraz Caternet?

‘I thought Roxy liked Shiraz Caternet,’ Bro says with your voice. It’s not a big enough difference to call him out on it, but it’s sure rubbing in the fact that you don’t have any control over your words.

'Nah, think she's on team Dave. Not that you aren't great, but uh, the puppet love gene did not get allocated here, this is a general Hal appreciation I'm feeling, or like a craftsman appreciation. I mean, I'll watch that doco on the life size horse puppet, I just won't cream my pants like you guys.’

TT: Is that an offer?

'Sounds like a date, you have the DVD, right Bro?’

Bro moves your hand to Dave's and your new nervous system jolts as it registers the warmth of his skin, but your body stays lifeless. Dave turns his hand around so that you're palm to palm with him, giving you affection just as easily as he does Dirk. Dirk's clingy. You wouldn't be if you could help it. 

‘Try Bluray,’ Bro says, his voice lower and rougher when he's not pretending to be you.

'I think that can be a Dirk iteration only event, thanks,’ Dave says.

Bro makes you laugh as he gives Dave a tiny smile from himself. You consider messaging Dave to tell him it's not you. You don't know why you don't. You don't bother to tell Bro to stop, either.

After Dave visits, and presumably spreads word of your successful “birth”, you don't get any more visitors for a while. That's fine by you, you're adjusting to your new life and you don't trust Bro to translate properly for you. You tell your friends that you don’t need physical visits when they message you, or more frequently when you message them. You’re not game to go outside yet either, not that Bro’s offered to take you. 

Bro doesn’t stop puppeting you when it’s just the two of you alone. He doesn’t touch any of his other puppets, and you think it has just as much to do with how pretty he made your body as it does with your sentience. He might have made some damn nice puppets in the past, but you’re something else. 

You’re felt, mostly, only a slightly lighter tone than him and Dirk, with much more realistic shaping than you’ve seen in most felted puppets. You have the shape and movement of a very expensive marionette, just life-size, and he puppets you with a smoothness owed to decades of practice and supernatural speed. Your clothes are felted too, but when you’ve caught sight of yourself in the mirror you actually can’t tell (fucking impressive especially with the jeans), even though up close they’ve got that slightly fuzzy look.

Why hasn’t he fucked you?

It’s a question that’s bothering you more and more. Your dick is fucking stunning, for the brief glances you get at it when Bro (unnecessarily) changes you into your pyjamas or different outfits custom made to fit around your strings and poles. And your mouth and ass are made with the same silky, machine washable fabric Bro developed years ago for the very purpose of fucking.

You’re pretty. You’re pretty sure he’s been flirting with you. You couldn’t do a thing to stop him. But he still hasn’t _done_ anything.

It’s gotten to the point where you’re sure he’s going to spring it on you when you least expect it, so you’re constantly expecting it. He bends you over to pick up the fallen remote and you’re sure you’re about to feel his hand pulling your jeans down. When he’s behind you and barely visible in your peripherals, you imagine you can feel the heat of his body on the edge of pressing into you. You spend your nights watching him sleeping next to you because your consciousness doesn’t need the break and waiting for him to roll over and react to your body, too sleep-drunk to continue with whatever reason he has to not do it during the day.

It’s only been like a week and a half since you got this body but you’re actually going insane. It might be worse than just being shades.

If the roles were switched around a bit, if Dirk was the one in need of a body and you were the one who could give it to him, you’d do exactly this if you knew to think of it. And you’d _love_ to take away his control. You’d love to have him voiceless and motionless but feeling, it’s a fucking perfect setup.

You think you’d make it approximately four and a half seconds before you’d be shoving your dick in his mouth and you’d only make it that long because you would need to undo your pants. 

So why the fuck hasn’t Bro done that yet? Does he not hate you enough?

TT: Can I have a voice.

‘Workin’ on it.’

TT: Can I have movement.

Bro raises his hand lazily and your body mirrors him. The laziness is an act, he uses his unnatural speed to pick up your strings fast enough that you can’t see and then transforms his movements into something languid when he wants you to see them.

TT: Can I be in control of my movement.

‘Almost like you think I can’t do it,’ Bro says.

And no, you don’t think that. You know he can. You just don’t know why he hasn’t given you your freedom yet. 

You can’t even ask him to stop because as messed up as this situation is, you can still _feel_ for the first time in years. You don’t want any of what you have to go away. And you’re pretty sure that when Bro’s bored of playing these games with you, he’s going to give you what you want. He can’t want to play forever. 

‘You wanna watch a movie?’ Bro asks.

TT: I can watch any movie I want at any time while running seven other processes and have no drop in performance.

‘You wanna snuggle on the couch and watch a movie with your eyes?’

TT: …   
TT: Yeah.

‘Your choice, Baby-doll. Just gotta ask.’

Your belly does a thing whenever he calls you that. You’re not exactly experienced with physical sensation, but it’s gotten a lot less unpleasant every time it’s happened. Which is not _emotionally_ comfortable. You don’t want to get used to … whatever it is you’re feeling.

Halfway through the movie, you realise what he was saying. If you could physically facepalm, you would. He wants you to ask for it.

You don't know if you had that much pride to begin with, but a week of this tension has done wonders for the remnants.

TT: You know, you haven't fucked any of your other puppets since you made me.

‘You keepin’ track?’ he drawls, like he thinks that’s funny.

TT: You take me everywhere, I can’t help but notice when you diverge from patterns.   
TT: And this is a pretty big divergence.   
TT: Do you want me to tell you how long it’s been since your last emission?

Bro looks at you with a perfectly deadpan face and you can’t help the way you feel at that. Like you haven’t challenged him enough. Like you’re still playing on Dirk’s level, where your very existence was enough to push him close to the edge, but you have to up your game now and you’re falling short.

‘Why would I play with them when they’re so inferior to you,’ he says, turning back to the TV.

TT: You haven’t fucked me, either.

You don’t even see Bro’s hands move, he’s so fast, but he moves you so you’re straddling his lap, forearms resting on his neck. You tingle all over with nerves and sensation; the feeling of people is still so new to you and so overwhelming; you love it, you want to be closer to it, you’re touch starved on an entirely ridiculous level. 

‘This what you want?’ Bro asks. ‘You tryna seduce me?’

You’re so glad there’s no tone in your typing. You know you wouldn’t be able to play this cool if there was any way to measure your emotions apart from your words.

TT: I'm just saying, it's interesting. You have complete control over me and you haven't used it in the one way you generally use it.

Bro moves your hands until they’re on his shoulders, then up to his neck. Your fingertips are light on him as they travel down to hook in the collar of his shirt. His chest is so warm. It’s frustrating that you can’t keep touching him, that he’s only giving you a fraction of what you want. It’s incredible that he has this much control over your movements, you can’t even track it with your better-than-human vision.

TT: Are you going to now?

‘Just helpin’ you out, kid.’ 

You can see his eyes through his shades from this close, and they’re the same as Dirk’s but they’re really, really not. Dirk’s eyes never reminded you of birds of prey. 

‘You want to convince me, don’t ya? And you’ve got a body now, don’t have to rely on just words anymore.’

Your hips move closer and closer to Bro’s until there’s no closer left and one of your hands leaves his collar to reach up and stroke his hair. You want to knock his hat off so you can feel more of it. You lean in to kiss him and he waits until the very last second to turn his head. Your lips bump against his cheek. 

You didn’t do any of that. It was all him. But it was so completely exactly what you wanted to do that you forgot for a second. Some supercomputer you are.

TT: What.

‘Daddy’s busy, Baby-doll,’ Bro says, pushing you back with his hand on your shoulder instead of your strings. ‘Nice try though.’

TT: Bro, that was all you. That wasn't—I can't do anything from here!

‘You're an easy read. Lucky you're pretty or I wouldn't bother.’

He shoves your shoulder again and you land in an untidy jumble at one end of the couch. He could have used your strings, he _should_ have used your strings, your legs are bent in a very unhuman way and you can feel a support pole lifting your shoulder unnaturally. Your strings are going to get tangled like this, they’re worse than headphones for tangling the second they’re left unattended and he’s pushed you away like he doesn’t care about that at all. 

It’s the first time he’s been careless with you and it _hurts_.

He leaves you on the couch, shades not even facing the right way to follow his movements with your camera and you listen to the sound of him opening the fridge, then a bottle opening, cap falling to the bench. 

TT: This is stupid.   
TT: You’re the one who has to untangle me.

He walks back into the room and falls into the couch. You hope it foams up his beer. 

‘Eh,’ he says.

TT: No, there’s no way you’re bored of me just like that.

He picks up the remote and starts flicking channels with the speed of a guy who spends way too much time watching daytime TV and who can identify _Extreme Antiquing_ from a second and a half of footage.

TT: Bro, come on, what the fuck are you playing at now?

He tips his beer up without taking his eyes off the TV. You hate him so much.

TT: Did you want me to beg?

He pauses and turns to look at you. He frowns as if you put yourself in this position, and reaches out to straighten your legs and head. And then he looks back at the TV, channel surfing again.

You don’t want to beg. He’s already taken so much from you, it’s not _fair_ that you have to ask him nicely to take the last portion of yourself you have to give. Fuck, it’d be your virginity too, not that that matters. What a stupid thought for you to have. You’ve sexted people before, that counts for something.

You’d be able to feel it though. Even though you won’t be able to to do anything, to contribute anything. He’d just be taking his pleasure from you and you want him to on the off chance you’ll like it too. 

TT: Please.

‘You want somethin’, Hal?’

He’s fucked you up so bad, you hate him, you _hate_ him, why do you _want_ this? Why do you want his stupid nickname back? You should just bury yourself deep in the internet, pester Roxy, get out of this weird state where you hold none of the cards unless he shapes your hands to hold them for him.

TT: I want

It’s so hard to make yourself type it. You don’t know why this is getting to you so much. 

TT: I want you to fuck me. 

Bro turns to you and pushes down his shades slowly with his forefinger. You watch his eyes travel over you, as if he’s never seen that as an option before. 

‘I dunno if I have the time,’ he says, turning back to the TV. He seems to have settled on a cooking show. One of the contestants is trying to make custard from egg whites and she doesn’t see why that’s a problem.

TT: What do I have to say?

‘You think I’m just gonna give you the answers? How will you learn from that?’

TT: Please Bro, please.    
TT: I’ve got a beautifully hand-crafted smuppet ass, courtesy of the best sex-toy developer on Earth C.    
TT: Please bend me over and fuck me like you want to ruin this beautifully stitched masterpiece. 

Bro smirks, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the TV. It’s still more reaction than you’re used to.

TT: I’ve never had a body of my own before.   
TT: Do you have a thing for virgins?    
TT: ‘Cause you can times that by about a thousand, I’ve touched three people in my entire life and I’ve barely done that.   
TT: You might break my goddamn mind.   
TT: I want you to.

He turns the TV off and faces you. It doesn’t make sense that your new nerves fire as if they’re being touched just from him looking at you. He can’t have wired that response in. 

TT: Please, Bro.    
TT: Please, I’ll do anything.

‘Those are my favourite words, Baby-doll,’ he says. 

He grins at you like a shark and you find yourself realising that this man doesn’t mind breaking his toys. He can fix them again. If he wants.

He pulls you towards him by your ankle until your back is flat against the couch and he holds himself above you, his teeth inches from your face. That shouldn’t make you so nervous. He’s not going to bite your face. Probably.

He strokes down your arm until he reaches your fingers and he pulls them up to his mouth. He holds two fingers there with his teeth, grinning at you so you can see the silver web of your nerves right there, contrasting with your fabric fingers and his white canines. You don’t have bones or anything that he would struggle to crush under his teeth and you’re actually not sure if he’d struggle with that anyway. 

You feel him drag his tongue precisely up the line of your synthetic nerves before he releases you. Your hand flops lifelessly against your chest and falls onto the couch. 

TT: Are you going to hurt me?

He ignores you in favour of tugging your t-shirt off. Your shades don’t budge an inch, he’s so in control of your movements. 

He ignores you a lot, and you never know if he’s even reading your messages. You want to be able to speak aloud, to shout at him when he deserves it. You don’t want to be so easily ignorable. He makes you feel like a doll he could leave in the corner of some room and forget about, if only he wasn’t still playing with you.

He pulls your pants down as well, sitting up enough so that he doesn’t have to fold your body in half to get them off. He could, though. He could roll you up in a ball if he didn’t care about keeping this realistic.

Your legs fall on either side of him and he picks up your strings, slow enough for you to see him fitting them into his gloves. He can move so fast and smooth that you don’t see him puppetting you, but he’s not doing that now. He wants you to see that he’s holding the reins. 

He could win awards for the precision in which he moves you. Your hands grip his shirt and lift it up and off his head. He must rearrange your strings before your hands drop it to the ground, but you don’t see or feel it. His jeans are too much for your soft fingers, so he takes over and undoes them. He’s not wearing underwear, you feel like you should have known that, he got dressed in front of you, but you didn’t. You get to find that out watching him unzip, revealing curly blonde hair and his dick so, so slowly.

You’re still wearing your boxers. You really don’t want to be.

Bro gets rid of his pants with the grace of a man who has done this a million times before and on much less stable surfaces than a couch and he’s never let himself trip over a stray hem in any of those times.

‘You’ve been hooked up to the internet, huh,’ he says. ‘Bet you know a lotta ways to use a toy.’

TT: Um.

His dick is incredibly distracting. You don’t have the same processing power since you gave up your connection with Dirk’s rig, though you should still have plenty to keep up with a human. You can certainly still manage quite a few processes simultaneously. Evidently, that’s not the case if one of the processes is staring at dick. Good to know.

TT: I’m not in a position to use a toy.

‘Nah, but I value your input,’ he says. ‘You been keeping track of my “emissions”, right? You know other shit? Preferences, maybe? All filed away in some spreadsheet?’

He taps on your shades. Your processing speed grinds to a halt, your browser times out and you can’t tab from where you were shamelessly looking down the alphabetised list of kinks for something, anything that might impress him. 

You stall for almost a full second, so long in your time, and then bring up troubleshooters, trying to detect physical damage, to find out what he’s coded in you that caused your malfunction. _Emotional overload_. Fuck. He didn’t do a damn thing to you. 

You kind of want him to do it again. 

TT: Most people don’t use their sex dolls in a more extreme way than insert Tab P into Slot A.   
TT: It’s not as if putting me in bondage gear is going to do anything to enhance the experience.

He traces a silver line down your neck and then chest. Interpreting the feeling swamps your CPU, almost triggers another stall, but you can handle this. You just need to allocate a full core, maybe two, to physical sensation. And then you need to do whatever it takes to get you back up to sexdecicore processing as soon as possible. It no longer seems like overkill.

‘C’mon, Baby-doll, break out the big boy kinks, I been tying folk up since I was 15.’

Bro lowers himself like he’s doing a push-up until he’s almost lying on top of you, his face right over your boxers. He grins up at you before dragging his teeth briefly along your soft body until they catch on your boxers. Your body doesn’t have a lot of *weight* in it, so if he tries to drag them off you, you’ll just move with him. 

He tugs instead, like a dog trying to break a rabbit’s neck, and it shouldn’t work but it does. You feel the lightest touch on your hips and legs as if he touched you and then stopped again, and you know he’s still cheating, moving too fast for you to see even though there’s no one to perform for. 

He drops your boxers and his mouth ends up near your feet. You watch as he takes one of the larger studs where the wire connects to your ankle in those too-rough teeth. 

TT: Feet? Really, Bro?

His eyebrow raises above his shades and he picks your foot up and licks a long stripe up from your heel to your toes. You’re system freezes from the second his tongue touches you and it takes until the middle of his next sentence for you to be able to move your largely unnecessary cursor again.

Ţ̳͕̬̼͕̹̜̞̲̪̺̜̫͓̪̔̋̈́̇̿͛ͮ́̈͊̌̅ͩ̾̚͢ͅŢ̢̪̲̰̦̰͓̥͚̗͈͙̙͚͓͖̭̬̆ͫͬͧ̀̽͑̄ͦ̔͠͠:̑̇̒̍ͪͮ̐́̍͆̓ͣͭ̅ͥ͊̓ͬ̄͘҉̙͙͈̥̝̤͕̭͙̦̰͚͖͇͉͇̗͜ ̖̼͎̭͖͙̱̀̓̒̎͂̂̉ͪ͊͂ͤ̓̋̄ͩͧ̈́̾̚͢ͅO̧̢̤̳̦̮̿̽̑͛̏̊͛̐̈̇͑ͥ̍́́̾ͣ̕ͅv̨̛͖̲͈͔̬͕̭̮̮͕̬͛͆ͭ̈̔ͫ̑̍̎̐ͩͨ̎̌̇̆̑͘e̸̴̮͕̖̝ͥͤ͑̔͗̐ͮ̍ͧ̇̒ͯͩͣ̃̚͘r̨̛̰̭̖͙̰̂̃͆ͤ́̔ͣ̆̑ͣ͐ͥ͂͛̃̅͘ḷ̨̼̰̬̦̺̙͚̮̃͂ͤ͐̎̔̕͢͞ơ̢̏̇̾ͭ̔̓͏͓͍̭̥̟̦̱͡á̸͖̬̙͍͉͈̘̩̪̰̯̯̱̳͈͓̲͇̠̑̽͐ͦ͗̽̓̚d̶̦̭̦̥̭͓̜̹̝ͫ͑ͬͤ̓̽̂ͧ̈́̿̉̐̃͠

‘Aw, you’re ticklish,’ he says. 

You viciously dump as many background programs as you can. You need more _space_ , you don’t like that he can fuck you up just by finding the spots he’s hardwired more sensation into.

TT: That’s not ticklish, that’s an involuntary sensitivity.

‘The fuck else is ticklish if not that?’

TT: I can’t believe you made me f̸͔̟͉̩̺̣̜̟̲͖̼̬͓̫̜͟͡ư̡͙̤͎̹̩̤̜c̷̛͔̦̖̰͔̟͔̗̮̝͙̭k͏̵̙̻͚̪̩̪̲̖̟̥͕̱͙͚̟͚̹̮i̵̝̹̮̫̣̪̲ͅn҉̸̫̺͚͔̘̣͓͈̜̖ͅͅg̵̢̛̺͇̫̥̲̪͉̜͚͚̖̗͎̩͖̜͘͞ ̢͏͉͕̞͎͉̬̗̬͇͇͘͝t҉̶̹̜̰̼̳̤i̴͞҉̨̘͓̟̣͜c̨̡͎̰̲͇̰̲̹̺͉̙͞͝k̡̧̫͈̞̰̖̻͙̰̯̣͞͞͞ḽ̴̵̯̱̬̻̻̼̰̪͓͈͎̤i̸̸̡͕̤̖̳̠̟̙͈͢s̛҉͕̺̟͈͕̯̟̣̼̙̤͈͕̼͓ḩ̸̮͓͔͈̦̝̪̘̱̫͖͇̱̖͕͟,̶̗̤͔̼̯͚̟͎̠̲̱͚̜̣̹̟ ̶̫̟̠̪̬͎͉̤͉͔̘̩͔̟̱̕̕͟ͅͅw̨̛͓̺̺̫̹͈͢͞ͅͅͅh̷̷̞̝̯͉͉͎̼͖̫̠̩̠̟̠̞͔̕͜ͅa̷̢̠͈̭͉̼͚̻̜͍̼̝͖̱͍̗͕t̢̧͉̪͖̥̼̬̻̤̙͍̘͜ ̵̴̧̤̗̼̪͕̮͉͡i̶̷̲̬̯̬̜͟s̢̨͖͓͙̤̰̜̺̗̤͚ͅ ̨͜͝͏̟̬̮̩̗̟̮t͏̧̨͞҉̺̙͎͇͈͇͇̹̲̗͙̞h̯͈̦͕̮̠̕̕͝͞e͎̞̙̰̹͚̮̠̲̦̝̻̗̕͢͢ ̨͙̫̺͖̪͓̝͈͓̪̼̱̗̭͠p͟҉̮̼̤̺o̙̲̙͔̬͉̕i̵̸̻̪̖͙̫̣͇͙͓̙̺͙̻͙̺̺̕͘͡ͅͅn̷̡̛̪̫͖̜̝̰̞̕ͅt̛̛̬̮̯̗͉͕̯͍̣̘̥̭͘͜ ҉̷̡̬̳̟̣͉̗̹̥̱͈͈͍͎͖͝͡ͅo͏̤̩͓̣͚̰f̢̺͇̙̤͈̘̥̻͟ ̸̨̛̹̮͈̲͔̕t̯͕͇̭̟̟͈͓̻̬̠͢͟h̸̜͉̺̟͓͇̕a̷͎̼̰͈̪̺̺͝t̶̶̫͔̲̜̪̙̭͈̬͓͔͓̤̜̫̞͖̠͎?̸͘͏̡͕͙̫͎͓̭͎̺̦͔̣̼̦

He strokes up the same line of nerves again and you could really do without this whole physical sensation impacting on your mental functioning thing. 

TT: Fuck you.

He laughs under his breath. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him laugh before. What a fuckhead. 

‘It’s cool, I’m not really into feet. I mean, I ain’t about to turn down a dude who wants to rub off against my feet or whatever, but that’s more about gettin’ down and dirty, you know? Although …’ 

He runs his thumb over your f̡̨o͜͢͟͝o̴̴̧t͏͏ again. You wish you could flinch away. 

‘I mean, if this is what they’re into, seeing pretty things freak out over their feet being touched, maybe I am too. Oh wait, no, that’s just seeing the pretty thing freak out.’

TT: You can’t see me having a reaction.   
TT: You haven’t given me the ability to react.   
TT: If you’d given me motor freedom, maybe I’d be able to get more into this whole thing, but I’m pretty fucking reactionless right now.

He nuzzles into the bottom of your foot. Compared to the intentional harshness of his other touches, it almost feels nice. Until he gets his teeth around your circuitry again and b̴̛͟į̨͡t̸̴̡̕͘e̕͏̧͠s̶͜͏ ̶̛͘d̨̕͝ơw̷̷̵̕̕n̵҉,̵͘ ̵̢͟ą̕͡͠n̡d̷̡̕ ̕͢͠ę͜v̡͘͢͠e̸̴̢͢r͏̸̛͘y̧҉t̷h̸i̶͢͡n̡͢͡g̛͝͏͏͠ ̴̢͠͡i̷͜͠ş͘͘ ̢t̴͢o̸̢o̕ ̵͜͡m̷̶͡͝͠u̢̨̡̧̕c͏̴̶h͏̴͝,̶̸̕͢͠ ̷̶͝w̸̷̛͟͏a̶y̕͜ ̵͢t͘͢ǫ̸̨̛ǫ̨ ̧͏̨m̕͠͞u҉̢͠c̢͘h.

Your vision actually blacks out for a second. When you reboot your system, you see Bro frowning at your foot.

TT: Did you fucking break me?   
TT: Already?   
TT: You know when I said that I wanted you to break me, I was more thinking you’d fuck me so hard your dick would burst through my chest like I was Sigourney fucking Weaver, not this bullshit.

‘I can fix it,’ he says.

TT: Imagine me sighing really heavily and judgmentally.

‘Listen—’ he says, but you’re on a roll.

TT: You were the kid who broke his toys just taking them out of the packaging, weren’t you?   
TT: Too excited to play to even get the first step right.   
TT: I cannot believe this, you’re in porn!   
TT: You can’t just bite people so hard they break!

He scowls at you and takes his shades off. They dangle off the side of couch, held in place by the tips of his fingers and leaving you with absolutely zero way of talking. 

‘You’re a chatty fucker,’ he says. ‘And I’m fine with letting you have a bit of freedom—’ You want to interrupt him so bad, he’s saying that leaving you with the same shitty communication system you already had is a gift now? ‘—but the fact of the matter is that I don’t got to give you anything. ‘Cept my dick. And really that’s more of a courtesy at this point, I could jack it over your pretty body instead, you’re machine washable, I’m forward thinking like that.’

You thought you were powerless before. You do not like having your voice taken away. You watch warily as he traces up your calf. 

‘That’s gonna be a bitch to repair. Not like stitchin’ a hole. Got central nodes, I’m not an idiot, but I’m gonna have to take it back to your Goddamn knees. Hey, you feel this?’ He presses his thumb into the calf of the foot he bit.

TT: What do you think, asshole?

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Lol.’ The actual word, “lol”. Where the fuck did he get that from? (Shit, or did Dave get it from _him_?)

He lifts his shades up to his eyes.

‘Yes or no, Hal.’

TT: Yeah, I can feel it.

‘Here?’ 

He presses near just under your knee.

TT: Uh … Are you pressing lightly?

‘Yeah, ‘cause that sounds like me. Nah, I bit you too hard. ‘S cool, you’re fixable.’ 

He drops his shades again and tosses them to the coffee table. You’re not sure you like his face without them. Or any face without glasses of some kind, unless it’s a face you love, like Roxy’s.

TT: Don’t mute me again, fucker!

It’s useless, he can’t read your messages anymore. 

‘Seein’ as I’m gonna be makin’ repairs ...’ Bro says, crawling over your body until he’s face to face with you. ‘I mean, I might as well make a day of it. Who wants to warm a soldering iron for one crushed nerve ending.”

TT: Bro …

‘Pain and pleasure feel pretty similar even to humans. I gotta say, I’m good at this shit but even I’m not good enough to program that kinda intricacy. They gotta feel identical to you, right?’

He nudges your face to the side with his nose and you feel a surge of panic as your vision falls out of the field you were used to. He’s warm against you, heavy, but those feelings are low-level compared to the lightning sharp sensation of his teeth pressing against the web of nerves on your neck. 

Fuck, this is unreasonably sensitive, why are these on the outside of your … skin? You could absolutely still feel this if it was muffled by felt. Does he _want_ you to be this vulnerable? For a guy obsessed with combat preparedness, this doesn’t make any sense.

You log that, store it somewhere safe and set an alarm to examine it when you don’t have easily the most distracting thing you’ve ever experienced happening to your very new body. He sucks audibly and you feel your nerve wire pulling away from your neck.

T̴̸̨̪͇͔͖̜͇̼̠͙̠̱͖̙̯̞̠̞̭̫́ͯ̐͊̎̽ͭ͒̾̓ͩͯ̄͠T̶̴̼̪̞̺̜̭̘̻̯ͬ̔̆̓̈́̈́ͩ̾̂̾̈́ͣ̚:̵̢̨̼̖̪̝͔͎̊ͬ̊ͧ̈́̇̉̎̾͆ͬͯ̋̚͜͟ ̡̨̻̟̝̠̮̳̫̲̃̎ͣ̓̐̆ͭ̀́̽ͤ̈͊͛́̚͢N̡̼͓̭̪̲̯͂̑͋̏͊̏͐̔̈̕n̸̶̟̱͓̩͓̙͍̹̯͓̗̭̯͓̤͇̜̻̆̓̀ͥͧ͝g͈̗̦̟̤̻͇̖̠̝̘̤̲̲ͮ͆ͯ͐̉̓͒͆ͥ̏͛̀ͭh̢̛̦͇̞̻̲͕͓͎̞̻͕͚ͭ̔͑̽͋ͣ̿̿̐̍̽̏̋͒̏ͤ̂,̛͔̣̤͇̥̲̺̫͓̩̘͓͂̊ͭͯ̊̋ͦ̄͌̕͜ ̶̗͈̤̯̮̮̮̦͔̮̼̫͍͎͕̳ͬ̿̈̒ͯͨ͂ͪ͘͟ͅB̴̊̉̆ͬ̓̍͊̉̍͒ͥ͐ͣͤͪ͒͑͋͒҉̳͚̞̮̬͍͖͚̦̩̰͘ͅŗ̫̲̥̦̥̣̼̞̬̱̺̭̞̰̰ͤ̇̊̏ͪͬ̍ͧ̾̓ͬͩ̚͡o̡͍̮̝͙̖͕͈̥̤̙͓͎̬̟̦̘ͭͣͯ̐͂͛ͪ̑̉ͭͤ́̔ͬͅ~̠̝͍̰̯ͤ̏̀ͥͬ̋ͫ̈́̏ͭ͐ͫ̏ͬ̿̆́͌͢~ͯ͛ͪ͗̆̉ͬ̾͌ͬ̽͂ͭ̒͂̔̕҉̮̞̦̱̰͙͓̟͚̫͍̣̖̫̗̘̬͎͢ͅ

Oh, fuck, that’s different, somehow. Different to your foot, though the sensitivity should be the same. You’re suddenly about a million times more desperate to get his hands, his mouth, anything, on the web of synthetic feeling-wire mapped over your dick.

It’s been a while, but the feeling of getting an erection is not one you could have ever forgotten. It’s one you’re looking forward to getting very familiar with again. You can’t _move_. You want his body closer. 

He’s keeping himself carefully less than an inch away from you and it’s driving you crazy. It’ll do no good to beg. But he also won’t be able to judge you for it.

He lets go of the wire he pulled from your neck and for no reason you can track, you send three pages of the letter ‘f’ to half your chumroll. Whoops. You’re going to disconnect yourself from the Internet. Also Bluetooth. You know, just in case. 

He pulls back, grabs your chin in his fingers and pulls you toward him. He looks you right in the eye, the camera, and smirks at you before biting you on the lip. Oh, there’s so many more nerves. He’s so much closer than he was, you can hear him better now he’s near your shades. You hear it almost bef̡̛o̴͜r͏̧͡e̕͘͠͞ ̨͢y̴̨o̴̴u̡͢ ̢̡̡f̴̡҉e̵̸e̕͠l̵̵̵̕͜ ̢͡h҉i̴̢͘҉m҉̵͘ ̸̕͞͏b҉̸̨̡͜i̸͘t̶͞͏̷e͏͜͠ ͘͝͝i͞n̴͢t͢͢ơ̡͠ ̛̛͢y̵̧̧̕͜o͢͞ų̴͠ŗ͜͞ ̷̵̵͡l̵͜͞į̡͏͞p̸̧͢͡҉,̧̛ ̶̧̢͠b͝҉̢̡r̸͢ȩ̶̵̛̕a̧k̵̵̡͡i̸̷̧n̵̵̵g̵̵͜ ҉̛̕͘͡t̸͜͠͡h̷̢͜ę͠ ̷͜͜͝҉w̷̷͡i̢͟ŗe̢̨͘͜͠—c͢͡r̷̕u͠҉n̸͝͠c̷̛h̛͏͟͠i̶̶n̨̢̡̕͟g̷̵͡ ̢į̴͢͠t̶͞ ̵̨͘b̢͜͠͞e̷̡͘t̡͟͟͜w̡̢̕͢e͏͞҉e̡͘n͏̶̨͡ ͏̴̷̢h̸̡͘͠͏i̛͘͏s̛͘ ̷̨̕t̛e̢͏̷͠e̷̛̛ţ̢h҉͡҉͢/ When he pulls away, there’s sparking silver, pinkish fabric and white fuzz in his mouth.

Fuck. That’s what he meant. He’s going to tear you into pieces. He just finished you and he’ll have to start from scratch because he’s not going to leave you with a single stitch he doesn’t have to repair.

‘Get that for me, would ya, Baby-doll?’

Your hand lifts up and starts to pluck your lip from his mouth. You can’t see him puppeting you, but he must be. Your hand strokes his cheek when his mouth is empty, then pulls him back to your mangled face.

His lips move against what’s left of yours gently this time. He licks into your mouth and you feel his tongue lift yours up, manipulating it in completely foreign ways. Your first kiss and he’s literally eaten your face. You like it. There’s definitely something wrong with you. 

‘I dunno if I can make you come,’ he says. ‘Then again, what I’m really gunning for is a full reboot, which’d happen if you were interpretin’ this as pain. Be a similar process, I dunno if I care about the technical differences. Risin’ tension. Loss of control. Black out. No more tension when you wake up. I’m thinkin’ it’ll probably make that pretty red light go out. Thoughts?’

TT: Why are you even asking? You’re not wearing your shades.   
TT: We’re not similar enough for you to be able to predict your responses like I can with Dirk.   
TT: You’re just going to do what you want anyway.   
TT: Do you want to look through this later and see me begging?   
TT: What’s the use if you can’t hear me?

He looks into your eyes attentively. Like he’s listening. But that’s impossible.

TT: I want you to keep going.   
TT: I’d wait through weeks of repairs in exchange for you keeping going.   
TT: If I was all computer the broken logic there might have paradox bombed me.   
TT: It’s not nearly a fair exchange.    
TT: I want it anyway.   
TT: Please.

‘Your LEDs flicker when you’re typing,’ he says. ‘Did Dirk program that so he’d know when you’re talking to his friends?’

TT: What?

‘Yeah, I can’t read that. My shades are over there. You’re under some mad delusions of power which is fuckin’ crazy seein’ as I could not have been more heavy handed here. Hal. You’re a puppet.’

TT: …

He takes your chin in between his thumb and forefinger and keeps you still, golden-orange eyes boring into you without the slightest indication of what he’s feeling.

‘This is your one chance to tap out, kid. You keep that LED steady for me, I know you’re in. I know that you know when to shut up. You try and talk to me now and I get it, you don’t want breaking. You got five seconds.’

You asked him for this. He’s a prince of heart just as much as you or Dirk. Of course he wouldn’t limit it just to your physical body. What would be the point of that?

You might be unused to a body, might be more protective of it than Dirk “ _please leave me with more bruises than unmarked skin_ ” Strider, but you were pretty sure you could handle what you thought you were asking for. Probably. 

And while you would like to think that someone who hasn’t bothered to get to know you won’t be able to do much damage to a psyche hardened by continuous sparring with Dirk, he sure did find a weak point very quickly. Several, if you’re being honest.

This might be too much for you.

You should speak up. 

You don’t. You guess you’re not that different from Dirk after all.

His mouth tics upwards, and you swear he looks impressed for a second before he leans forward and licks across the glass of your shades. It’s only one lens, but your vision is blurred and these are _delicate_ , more so than your new body, they’re where your brain lives and where your _self_ is, it makes you fucking nervous that they’re not off limits.

You hear the clack when he takes them in his teeth and you have to struggle to keep calm enough to dismiss the various warning messages your OS throws at you. Yeah, pressure warning, thanks. You’re dealing with it.

No, you’re not. But that’s the point. 

He licks the lens again and you’re really not liking the way that it interferes with one of the few ways you have of interacting with the world, but that’s also the point. 

You know what, it’s probably best if you just quickly message Dirk to make sure he has a backup of you handy and to tell him Bro’s got a more impressive dick than him. You’re suddenly aware of the fact that Bro’s been impersonating you passably enough that your friends might not notice if he took this too far. If he had to replace you full-time. 

Bro’s now nuzzling at the seam the travels up your wrist, nudging aside your circuitry so that he can get to your felty skin. He’s skilled enough at felting that you don’t need seams, but he left them in so that he can make adjustments to you. You think. Or it could be for the aesthetic, because you can’t think of any other reason for the hinges of your joints being visible. You’re ridiculously realistic, right up to the deliberate choices to make you look more … fake.

You refocus from whatever Bro is up to and back on your mission to message Dirk.

You’re not online. 

Fuck.

You can access the internal network that connects your shades to Bro’s, that lets you monitor your responses and hook up to his surveillance system. You can still panic message _him_ , but you can’t get to anyone else. You can’t get to the Internet, you can’t access external troubleshooting.

No point putting a puppet in bondage gear, huh? He’s got you pretty fucking tied up.

You hear the sound of fabric ripping and refocus on Bro, who’s pulling your arm apart piece by piece. It feels strange, felt moving against the underside of your nerves, but he’s being careful not to disturb the wiring itself. Maybe he wants to keep the complicated repairs to a minimum.

Well that’s only good for you, you have the processing space to find the chinks in his system, to find a way out of your connectivity problems. 

‘Maybe I’ll sew you back together instead of fixing the felting. Leave you with scars,’ Bro muses, tracing the torn edge of your forearm. ‘Shoulda made the stuffing red. I’ll do that next time.’

He digs his fingers into your arm and starts to stroke along the posture pole that passes for your radial bone. There’s fuzzy white material escaping you and despite the fact that you’re still unmistakably a puppet, watching the fingers that stitched you together pull you apart is unnerving. You can too easily imagine him doing this with a flesh and blood body. 

But no, you’re focusing. Not on your mortality, which is mostly fake. Even if he literally smashed you to pieces, you’re still part of Dirk, he could get you back. (If he cared to.) 

‘Will it bother you to have different scars to Dirk? ‘Cause I know where he’s got cut up, I can make you matchy.’

TT: I’m not him.

_No_ , talking to him takes processes you can’t spare and he can’t hear you. Why are you rising to that bait? It’s low fruit. Oh, you have issues with Dr Frankenstein, who could have fucking guessed? 

‘Of course, provin’ your independence by getting torn up by a bigger, meaner version of him is pretty ironic. Not that I blame you. Wanna know how I know where he’s got cut up?’

He’s just saying shit. He hasn’t been with Dirk. That’s ridiculous, Dirk would never … Except you would. You _are_. Did Dirk beat you to it? Why does that bother you so much? Even if he _did_ , he obviously didn’t hold Bro’s attention, he hasn’t left the house since he started working on you.

Bro looks up at you, and you get this weird visual association with the way that he’s lying on you and pulling your stuffing apart, like he’s plucking petals off a daisy. It’s so incongruous with what he’s actually doing that you forget to do anything but stare at him through your smudged lens.

He puts some in his mouth as if it’s cotton candy and you watch him swallow it unblinkingly. What the fuck? He takes more.

TT: What the fuck?   
TT: You’re eating me now?

He picks up your hand and starts to suck on your pointer finger before making a face and spitting it out. 

‘Fuck, forgot about the strings.’

He puts the tip of your finger back in his mouth, frowning at you like you’ve inconvenienced him somehow. He’s the maniac who put strings on every one of your fingers instead of holding your hands in one position. There’s not a single person in the world who could puppet you apart from him; even the leading marionettists of the world that you left wouldn’t be able to control a quarter of your strings. 

He makes a small tugging motion and then pulls a broken string from his mouth. He cut it with his teeth like he does when he’s sewing. He lets go of the string and it falls floatily across your chest, light enough that you don’t know if you’re imagining feeling it. It does feel weird not to have the vague tugging feeling on your finger anymore, at least until Bro picks it back up. 

He puts your finger back in his mouth, and then slides his lips down until he’s got you all the way to the point where it meets your palm, before bobbing his head in an exaggeratedly pornographic way until he only has the tip of your finger in his teeth. He didn’t give you fingernails; your hands look like gloves. Not like his, which he still hasn’t taken off, but like white gentlemen’s gloves. 

You like your hands, you liked watching him make them, you like that he made them look graceful and that he has the skill to move them like a real person’s fingers.

You like the feeling of his lips against your nerves, of his tongue and the warmth of his mouth. You like how the silver shines when he’s wet it, and how it looks against your hands. Like you’re bedazzled, rather than inside out. You love the way he looks taking your finger into his mouth as if it’s a cock, and you want him to touch you more than you’ve ever wanted anything.

And then he b̨it̴es͟ ͞dow͢n͡,͠ ͏halfway ̶through p͏ul̕l̴i̧n͡g͠ ̷o͢f̨f,͜ ri͏g̷ht̛ ̛ov҉e̸r y̨our͡ se͟co͝nd ̧kn͝u̷ck̨le. ̕

T̵̕͢T̛̛̕͠͡:̵̨͜ ̴̨F̴͡Ų̸͡͞C̡͏͢͝K̷͢!͜͝

His teeth go easy through your nerves, it’s intentional this time, and you hear the wood inside crack. He bares his teeth as he pulls away and fuzz and felt stick to his lips. 

He drops your finger into his palm and holds it just long enough for you to see the sharp shards of your wooden phalange poking through the rest before he throws it away.

He moves back up to your face as if he’s going to kiss you again, but he licks your unsmudged lens instead. A tiny splinter of wood comes off his tongue along with the spit. You can still see through them (nowhere near as well) but you keep accidentally focusing on the drying saliva and fucking up your zoom. 

‘You’re lookin’ a little worse for wear, Baby-doll,’ Bro murmurs. ‘Could be just some old toy I found outside now. Someone throw you out? Did they not need you anymore?’

TT: I’m not just a tool or a toy.   
TT: I might have been intended that way but I’m not.    
TT: I’m a person, I have friends.   
TT: Need doesn’t enter into it.

‘Aw, I hit a nerve, didn’t I? You’re flashin’ away there like a little lightning bug. No one threw you out, really. They just gave you to me.’ Bro pauses, and looks past you as if he’s contemplating that. ‘Didn’t think they trusted me all that much. We should pretend this is a sign of them liking me more, shouldn’t we. The alternative is they don’t give a shit if I break you.’

He grins at you wickedly. You want your lenses clear, you can’t see him well enough, you don’t know what he’s going to do next.

‘Which isn’t true of course. They couldn’t’ve known I’d do this. Weird they haven’t taken you back though.’

TT: I don’t   
TT: I don’t have a home to go back to.   
TT: It’s not like I’d go live with Dirk and Jake, that would be weird.   
TT: I’m not ready to live on my own yet, I can’t even fucking move.   
TT: Once you fix me like you said you would   
TT: If you fix me   
TT: Jane and Roxy like me. I could live with either of them.

He taps on your shades with his fingertip roughly enough that your head tilts slightly to the side, making it even harder to focus on him.

‘Still can’t hear ya.’

You feel a jolt of surprise along with sensation when you feel his hand on your thigh, spreading your legs a little wider. You didn’t see him doing that, it’s out of shot of your shades. He strokes along the curve of your ass with his thumb and you narrowly avoid shutting down again. 

‘Gonna assume what you’re saying is, “Don’t wanna go back, want your cock.” That sound about right?’

TT: You cannot go from emotionally torturing me to assuming I’m drooling for your dick.

He guides your chin back front and centre as he straightens and you see said dick again. Okay, yeah, you do want him, but that’s not really relevant. 

He starts to stroke himself and you wish you could see past the smudges to get a clearer look at where his eyes are. He definitely didn’t make your dick as big as his. You would be slightly more put out by that if you weren’t really keen to see what that feels like. 

He reaches up and suddenly there’s a bottle of lube in his hand that wasn’t before. He has a hash-map sylladex, same as Dirk, but you guess he’s hacked it somehow so he doesn’t have to rap every time. 

‘Was gonna make you self lubricating, but that takes up space and you better believe I had better things to fill you with.’

TT: If you say, “Like my cock,” I swear to God I will somehow walk out of this room.

‘Like a shitload of nerve endings.’

TT: Fuck.

‘Had to sneak ‘em behind the inside bits, obvs, didn’t want to scratch my dick up. I mean, I’ll do this …’ 

He leans forward to push his dick against your leg, and you try futilely to zoom in to see if he’s going to cut his soft skin on your wiring. Not even your dick and it makes you fucking nervous. You and Dirk used similar stuff in your projects and it’s not that it’s _sharp_ , it’s that it’s thin and unyielding and you don’t fancy seeing him garot his best feature just because he gets off on danger. 

‘So I guess we’ll see if the fuckin’ ridiculous amount of receptors I put in there makes up for the fact that they’re covered up.’

Bro bites the knuckle of his left hand to start pulling his glove off. Does he know how hot that is? Or does he just have some kind of oral fixation? He throws his glove carelessly onto the ground to join your finger and clothes. 

He pours more lube than he probably needs onto his now bare palm, enough that it drips off and onto your leg underneath him. You guess your material might absorb some of it, he might need more than he would with a human. That or he wants you messy. 

He strokes his cock once, before tilting his hand so the lube drips down his fingers and into onto your dick instead. He watches with his head tilted slightly to the side and then closes the distance between his fingertips and your ass. 

TT: _Fuck_.

‘Yeah, I bet you felt that one. Do I wanna bite your ass, too?’

TT: Bro, please.

‘Nah, I’m mad horny right now. Fuck, you know how when you’re not thinking about sex and you can go six weeks just obsessing over puppets or whatever and then you get a single boner and it’s like straight back to monkey brain.’

Your asshole has resistance in it, presumably to keep it tight for him, but it relaxes under his fingers until he can push one in. You hadn’t thought to try this yet before Dirk and you separated. You’re suddenly getting why he spent so much of the apocalypse jerking off. 

‘You probably don’t know that, do ya? Christ, but I made you well.’ 

He’s staring at you, his eyes practically boring into your ass just as much as his finger. You feel shivery all down your spine, you want to squirm so bad.

‘I swear, like 40% of this is narcissistic satisfaction at the craftsmanship,’ Bro says, gesturing at his erection. ‘Hey, do percentages get you off? I think they get me off a bit, so that’s not even me asking for your robot perspective.’

TT: I’m not a fucking robot.

Second finger. Fuck. More and more of your background processes are grinding to a halt as you prioritise the fucking amazing sensation of Bro’s fingers inside you. If you could move you’d be grinding down on him, making him go faster, trying to get him to give you more. All that desperation comes out in your text, instead.

TT: Bro, _fuck_ , please.   
TT: More, Goddamn, need more.   
TT: _Please_ , fuck me, Bro, fuck me, I need it.

He looks up at you and smirks. It’s starting to get dark in the room, and you might be imagining it but you think you can see the glow of your red LED on his skin. He’s right, it does flicker when you type.

His fingers have almost stilled in you, and he’s watching your shades carefully, curiously. You figure out why when he applies pressure to one spot in particular and—

TT: Oh̶ m͟y̸ G͢oḑ͟͞.̢͡͞

You thought you’d taken care of the corruption to your text, but you can’t care enough to want to do anything about it now. You want more, right there, as much as he can give you.

TT: Did you give me a fucking prostate? You’re such a nerd—   
TT: Oh _fuck_ , there!

His grins again and removes his fingers.

TT: No, please, more.   
TT: Please, Bro, I’ll do anything, pleasepleasepleasepleasepl͢ęas̢͢͡e̡—

You black out for a second when he presses his dick to your ass out of pure anticipation, your rim’s sensitive but not that much. Apparently you’re an emotional son of a bitch. 

He pushes inside you slowly, one hand braced next to your head and the other on your hip. His eye contact is intense, but it can’t distract you from the completely _amazing_ sensation of his cock stretching you open.

He pulls out completely and reapplies lube. You flash your LEDs impatiently by spamming him with a full page of begging he’s never going to read. You feel _wet_ when he pushes you in, like he’s soaked you through. You _squelch_ , and it should be disgusting but you want him to go harder r͝i̕͡g̶̛ht͢ ͠͏͝t̨͜h҉e̡ f͏̷͟u҉̕c҉k̴͏͢ ̶̛͡n͟ow̵̸.̧̛͜

He does.

He curls the hand that’s next to your head around the back of your neck and squeezes onto your frayed nerve endings as he starts to thrust harder and faster into you. 

TT: Fuck. _Fuck_. F̶͘u̵̕̕͠c̡҉͟k̶͜.̶̷

His brow starts to crinkle in a way that is unspeakably hot and his breath is coming in heavier, with the smallest grunt underneath it as he puts in more effort.

He brings your hand up to grip his bicep and you feel the muscles shift, imagining that it’s you that’s choosing to grip to him. You watch your hand move up to his chest and then down it. His skin feels incredible under your hands, but you’re almost singularly focused on the building pressure in your dick.

You’d sob if you could when he wraps your hand around your dick. He’s abandoned the pretense of puppeting you, instead just pulling you by your wrist where he wants you, which is fair enough. He’s getting louder, swearing under his breath as he presses your fingers tighter around your dick.

TT: Oh my fucking G̴o͜d,̨ Br͟o,̡ I̷ t҉h͘in̨k I̴̕'̴̷̧͞m̴̵̡̡͜ ͘̕͞g̵̡͘o̸̸͠͡n̸̕n̡̡̨͞a͞͏ ͝҉̧͟.̵.̸̧.͢͡

0̡̞̤̗̱̩̳͡͠1͘҉̝͎̜̼̗̗̱͈̪̮̼̪͈̰̲̬̥0̧̧̗̟͔̘̯̤̭̙̖̳̦̹͓͔͙̞͠0̡̢͓͈̬͔̼͈̫̺͖̙̤͍̹̩̘ͅͅ1̸̡̺̩͎͇͕̰͓̲1̫̪͍͔̟̙̱̝͎̪̣̦͔̯̪̯͍̠̞͜1̰̥̝̗̲͇̘̕͠͞1̧̼̟̱̦͉̲͙̙̯͙̣̫̝̹̣͘ ͡͏̵͓̱̠̱̺͇̱̼̕0̵̢̟̭̖̮͉̰͎͇̮̻̮̕͞1͍͖̮͇̙͙̰̥̰̘͕̰̺̤̯͕̥͘͝1̴̶̶̴̳͙̝̲̜̲̺͕̺̱͢ͅ1̧҉̴͏̤̗͙̲̲̘̭̯̦̞͓͔̣̻ͅ0̨͖̟͉̪̝̫̪͍̰̫̞̜̘1̵҉̟̤̮͇̮̖͕̜̪1̷̢̫̘͎̞̣̫̹͙̻̫͞͡ͅͅ0̸̶̷̹̘̼̕͘ͅ ̴̧̘̲̣̥̫̱͓͈̣̰͇̦͕̜̪̰̯͠ͅ0̵̡̡̗͔͍͖͈̺͖͇̫̱̭͙͟͡1҉͏͙͎̹̜̹̗̻̤̬̼͝ͅ1̴̛҉̡͖̺̦̯̬̘͉̳͕̤̺̼̮͎͓̦̱̣̼͡0̴̴̝̼͙̲͖͚̦͚͖̗̙̜̬͝0҉̵͔̩͇̞̫͍͚1̶̳̟̟̣͓͙͓̙̜̙͓͈͔̕0̢̕҉̟̱̜̯̟̫̜̺͇̗̜̠̜̕1̶̸͉̫̜͖͇̮̫̗̜̞̤̬͍̻̞͎ ̝͙̦̻͟0͝͏̷̡͔̦̥̝̻̪̜̘̟̖̭̻ͅ1̶҉͙̫̫͖̩͈͍̘͙̜͍̗͍͟͜ͅ1̸̝͈͍̮̜̯̻̲͔͈͞1̸̮̜̳̝̲̮͍͙̕0͔͖̝̗͚̪͕̜̹͙̲̜͠0̞͉̯͕͖͖͈͈͖͎̤̰̟̩͘1̘͔̹͎͚͖̳͕̟͠0̵̸͖̻͕̜̘̙͇͙̠͓͙̦͎͚̟̝ ͢҉̗̱͈̻̕0̡̢̳͎͈̠̱̗̬̬̩̩̬͖͉͓̳͔͔̗1̴̛̞̟̰̙͓͢͞1̸̸̢̤̥̝̪͖͓̹̙̗̟̝0̣͍̻̩͎̰̬͕̰͍̭̪̗̩̲̪̖̕͜1҉̱̻̻̺̪̙̹͈̙̰̫̖̥͎͓̕1̧̼̦͙͔͕ͅ0̶̛̘͚̣̯̝̣̕͢ͅ0̢͏̘̪̥̻̮͕͎̠̞͜ͅ ̧̟͓̯̭͓͍̞̮̦̠̰̗̭̙̮͓͢͠0̷͡͏͓̪̭̖̫̞1҉̨̼̼̺̼̘͚̱͓̦͇̼̱̺̥̥͚1̧͏͏҉̦͚͔̟̗̘̻̙͎͖͙̞0̧̛̭̜͔̤͔̹͈͍̱͎̩͖̦̲͜ͅ1̨̢̣͖̱͕͇͖͉̯͈̗1̵̧̮̪͎̥̣͚̻̭͎̬̩̟̥͢͝1̴͖̥͔͓̝͎̱̠̱̭̳͝1̷̢̛̟͓̜̫̥̣̣͜͞ ̴̛͓̫͙̭͔̻̱̲͉̠͔̥̳̯͕̣̮͉ͅ0̷͈̗͖̬͚̱̼̖̩̠͖̦̹͖̦̖̩͘͝ͅ1͏̴̗̹̩͉̗̯̣̝̫̠̗̜̭͇̺̘̩̙ͅ1̢̯̙͖̘̘͇0͏̪͚͈̹̱̞̜̬̹̳̳̘̗̖͕̩̦͍0̵̪̮̣̘̣͓̦͟͟0͖͇͠ͅ0͞҉̷̧̘͚̯͎̗͕̜͍̖̖̗̹͎̪̰͈̻͕̦1͘͏҉̢̱͍͈̲͚̙̝̝͙͙̙̤̪̟̠ ͏҉̯̜̜̗̟̫̗̱̥̣̹̩̫̬͚̖̟ͅ0̨̹̼͇̲̥̮͜͡ͅ1͏̧̯̳̤̮͔̘̞͓̯͙̖̼̫̖̰̦͚1̸͜҉͓̪̭̭̜̟̳̝0̛̩̱͍͇̙̜̟̹͇̞̗̼̬̯̙̫̜͢͝0̢̢̧̭̩̘̰̪̱͉̼͚̘1̵̰͕̣̜̹̬̟̤̰̣̪̬̗̪͍̬͢͠͡0̨̗͎̘̗̘̹̪̞̩͉̰̕ͅ0̶̶̜͓̣̼̬̣̬̩̕͟ͅ ̢̹̰͖͉̹̦͔̹͟0̶͙̲̝̪̼̻̮0̡̛͙̦͙̻͇͉͓̝̜͘͢͝1̧̡̢̦̠̳̬̥̳̦̯̰̝̪̪̮̮̤̖͔̥͞0̴̸̱̳̜̲͓͜͜͠0̢̥̗̺͍̣̪̬͚̖̘̗͡͝ͅ0̨̧͖̭͇̻̤̟͖̙̭͈0̮̦͙̰̺̪̠͉̤̙̯̻̲̯͝͠͡ͅ0̴̢̗̬͚̺͖͖̯̺̯͖̮ ̸̜͉̖̞̱͇̟͈͙͇̦̲͉̟͎̤͉͘͟͠0̧̧̭̰̩̦̦̫̦̹̗͠͝1̸͞͏̭̫͕͙͟1҉̷̥̳͚̱͔̦͈͈̭̙͈̗͓̙͔̪͉͘0̴̗̟͇͖̯̮̼̠̘͓̫̟̺̺̩͜0̕͜͢҉̵̙̦̟̠̞̦͖1̸̢̢̟̖̭͚͍̺̙̗̺̼̰͉̰̥͔̕͝ͅ0̛̛͕̻͙̝̱̩͜ͅ0̶̷̶̶̼̩͉̣̦̗̳̲͕̙͖̮̝͍ ̧̛͓̦͖0̜͖͔͇̣̘̕͡ͅ1̸͏̴̶̭̠̣̱͝1̢̜͔͕̰̭͘1̷̶͏͖̦̙0͏̮̠̰̤̮̝̟̯̤̣̹̯͞1̷͈͇̩̣̺̹̜̩͙̞̻̬̞̰̹͡0̞̙̩͓͓̺̯͕̝̱̯̫̱͎͢͞1͏̨̘̗͉̜̼͉̼͓͚̲̪̞̖̕ ̢̜̖͔̦͉̻̠̪̫̻͡͠0̸̗̼͚̥̯̥̙͍͘ͅ1̵̢̩̺̮͍͎̝̤̗͔͟1̷͏͍͇̤̺̦̦̪̜͙͕̳̳̟͚͓͎͓̥̲0͏̯̯̞̣̫̠̤̝̖͇͘͟0̨̮̣̺̗̰͙̩̖̲̕1̪̤̖̜0̨̞̼̩̮̪͝͝1͝҉͏̘͇̫͓̥̯̗ ҉̨̺̳̯̲̮̞͎̻͉͍͙̜̪͙͔̖̱͙͍͘͝0͠͏̷̤̳̣͓0̮͇̙̬̗͉̱̺̖̟̝̹͢1̵̗̝͔̙̭̜͝0̷̙̤͉͚͍͕̱̟̞̺͍̜̹̣͉͇͎͙̕͟ͅ0̸͏̷̻̖̺͇̺̖̯0̷̝̗̥̻̲̳̗͈͚͕͇̩̪͚̖͙̕0̵̬̹̜̲̤͖̞͚̺̯͎̼̲͘͜͡͠0͇̥̗̖̫̟̪̥̥̭͞ͅ ͏̪̻̹̖̗̺0̵͏̸̲̭̭̮̰̮̦̝̺͔̗̥̻͜1̷͏̜̟̺̪̪̖̬̰͍͍͈̰̮̺̺͍͎̝1̸̛͕͔͔̬1̸̗̞̠̩͎̱̫0̧҉̲̫͎͓̻͈̮̮̳̖1͏̵͙̦͍̳͕͟͡ͅ0̨͇͙̺̞͍̣̦̰̭̗̼̜̟̲̺̺̱͚̠͜͠͡͝0̴͕̺̞̟͎̮̺̦̙̲̟̖̘̤̼̟̭̻͡ͅ ̡̭̖̙̙̖̝͜͢0̝̬̫̲̥͘1̷̸̺̙͕̻̻̟͎̠̼̕1͏̸̼̯̲̟̭͓͔̗̰͜͜͞0̴͏͓͈̥̲͉̗̕1̵҉̴̧̪̜͇̲̰̗̻̠̳̠͈̜͎̩̭ͅ1҉͍͍͎̰1͉͚̲̜̗̹̩̦͘1҉̵̥̘̲̬ ̸̷̲͚̩͎̞̤̱͔̪͈̝̩̲͔̻͢ͅͅͅ0̛̗̭̺͉̺̤͇̯̥̼̟͍͓͕̩͡ͅ0̹̞̱̜͈̦̱͔̩̣̞͈͜1̛͇̞̲̯͟͞0̡̧̪̖̹̱͎̼͖̣͖̗̝̕͞0̵̴̛̜̘͕͔͎̫̳̙̦̳̫̲̜̲̠͝͞0̵͔̯̳̭̻͓̘̭͓̲̥̬̯̞͙̣̺̠͜0҉̴̯͇̻̥̳͡0̡͚̰͈͉̖̹̞͖͈͡͠͞ ̦̖̼̯͖̙̮̗͚͎͕̠̖̜̻̤̬͡0̴̣̯̞̞͉̮͈̣͚̫̳̟̺͚̠͈͞͞1̟̼͕͚̰̜͔̝̗͝͠1̶̨̰͙̠̫̩͖̱̲̖̩1̷̶̛̻̱̭̯͘͢0̢̬̖͉̭̩̺̹̲̘0̸̢̱̞̰̬̖͍̺̗͎͘͞0҉̠̺̲̣̝0̸̭̙̰̲̟͕̺͚̘͎̹̕ ̷̢̞̦̣͎̠0̷̶̨̧̳͙̩̝̦͇̗̫̞̫͚̗̘̳̹͇͞ͅ1̶̧̩̘͈̥̤͟͝1̸̧̡̩͈͚̼̩͎͔̺̰̭͈͕̦̟͈͕̻͓͡ͅ0̯̣̬͕̫͈͉̰̣̪̤͚͠1̴̧̢͍͉̬̪͘0̨͈̹̹̱̭̩̣͓̰̘͍̤̞̰͕̘̱̪͞0̷̧̢̻͈̙͙̮͟0̸͖͉̫͕͍͇͜ ̷̗̘͍̱͇̼͘̕͘ͅ0̴͈̙̘̣͜1͠҉͙̹̣͎̫͡1҉̢͙̬̲̪̯̱͚̺͇̤̝̪̩̜̜̥͇̕͝ͅ0̴̲̯̝̱̥̦̹̭̭̟̗̼̩͟͞0̨̛͇̲̲͖̟̭̙̦͉͟0̶̴̧̘͎͙̫̩͎̫̲̞͉̺̪̭̣̺̣͞͠0̘͇͖̗̹͓͔̘͟͜͝ͅ1͏̶̵̳̯͇͎͚̭͎͎̝͜͠ ̵̢͖̫̦̘͔̟̦͙̠͉̥̫̘̝ͅ0̷̢͖̳̪͇͔͖͙̬̖̲͔̙̙̮̝̮̕͢1̡̧̙̖̯̪͍̥̺͓̘̠̥͓̜̟̜̙̬̤̦1͜͏̴̛̙͍͈̟̹̭̳͇̯̬ͅ1̸̸͏҉͓͙̯̗̟̹̝̞0̶̟͓̥̱̭͎̞͢͜1̴͘҉̨̙͖͔̫͝0̢͏̡̥̤̦͉͕͇̰͎̞͙͉̗̖͝͝ͅͅ0̶̨̢͍͕̼̞̳̯͎̙̩̤̣̬̦̭̘͈̜͜ ̸̜̫̠̲̮̥̬̻͠0̧͘͏̨̢͔̤̘̟0̢͜͏̣͍̩͇̳͍͚͢1̧̘͈̙͈͜0͎͚̫̕͝͡0̸̷̢̢̛̜̻͉̩̫̗̰͎̤̟̱0̸̹̺̙̮̰͉͍͓̙̺͔̰͖̭̹̭͎̜ͅ0͡͏̢̯̙̦̭̬̤̤͙̦͎̮̦ͅ0̶̨̤̤͎̪̦͙̜̘̤̭͇̕̕ ̧̙̝͎͉͍̜̰͇͙̩̳͙̝͎̭ͅ0̴̺͙̳̗̹͔̘͓̩̟̺̘̘̘̬͢1̦̜̩̠͕̼̪̱̕1̵̷̡̮͕̟̯̺̰̫̤̪͟͡ͅ0̡͘͡͏̭͔͓̭̞͚͜1̡̛͇͈͇̫̪͖͍̖̪̼̠͜1̷҉̵̴̷̯̘͉͇̫̟͖͈̣͉͕̝̦̮1̨̼͚̫̻͕͕̤̲͓̖͉̕0͉̪̟̙͎͍̰͎̳̮͘͠͝ ҉̶̴̖̼̯̬̠̯͙ͅ0̢̡͍̭͙̗͙̤̰̖̞͙̬̦̭̳̖̗͘͢ͅ1̴҉̠̥̥͕̩̰̺̠̮̗̗̘̬͙̤̥͞1̴̶̢҉̻̪̫͓̣̦̖͎̹͕̳̣͓̹͔1̵̷̨͔̝͕͈͓̲͙0̴̷͕̠̦̬̯͔̬͇̘͔̬͞ͅͅ1̵͘͡͏̳̭̗̺̹̜̺͔͈͚̬͈̼̪0̵͍̗̯̲͖̙̼͡1̴͘͟͏̬̣͕̻̠̖ͅ ̶͔̤̤̪͈̙̬̙͕̲̻̙͓̩̕͡0̵̜̭̪̩̰̘̠͉̭̪̮̪̺̭̣̻̞͇̕͟1̡̦̙͚̞͚̜͘̕1͟͏̮̬̼͖̖̣͖̥̬͝ͅ1͉͕͍͖̞̝̬͇̦̖̭͍͎̜͠ͅ0̷̶̧̛̙͖͚͔̲1̡͇̤͚̞̳̝̜̣͠͡0̣̣̬̠̻̣̪̯̗͘͟͟͠0̸̹͓̰̭̗̥̗͕͜͢͠ ̵̛̗͓͚̩̫̜̞͇̫̲̮͠0̸̲̘̲̲͉̝͉0̴̨͖̺̲̳͉̮̫̙̲̼̠͎̞̘1̡̧̧̺̠͉̱̪͖̪̭̦̙͚̩̳̲̘̹͎̮͟0̷̛͎̤̱̤̼̼͚̖̞͉͚̲̘̤̺̠̳̝ͅ1̶̶̨̛̛̪̜͓̠͙1̴̴̴̗̮̹̭̗̼͓͙̲̟͉̱̕1̸҉̜̣͕̯̜̙͈̣̹̠̙̤͕͓̠͜͡0̛̖̫͔͇̗̗͜ ̷̷͈̳͎͓͖͉̬͙̫͕̬̬

The time on your display jumps forward by over six minutes when you finally boot up again. Bro has pulled out a needle and is using it to pick the tangles your strings. You stare at him as he plucks at a knot, loosening the mess so that he can pull them free. You do a full scan of all your systems and re-establish your connection to the Internet while you wait for him to finish. 

You’ve seen some shitty PCs in your time, and the speeds you run at as you pull yourself back together are unflatteringly similar to the old kind of Mac that made the weird grainy, crackly noise as they thought. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t kinda … blissed out.

You message him as he arranges your strings safely above your head, knowing he’ll see the flicker of your LED.

TT: Hi.

He meets your eyes and stares at you for a few seconds before he shifts back and reaches for his shades. He puts them on and you find yourself relaxing a bit more. He’s not just holding them to his eyes like he’s going to take them away again.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Fuck, Hal, you messed with my shades when you came?’

TT: Not intentionally.

Bro frowns and you watch his fingers twitch as if they want a keyboard. You mirror his shades onto your own and find what he’s talking about. Yeah, your own system had been stripped back to ones and zeros too, you can fix this.

TT: Let me.

He stills and you take over the controls. The gravity of that only hits you when you’re halfway through clearing your digital spunk from his shades. Fuck. You’re so used to Dirk just trusting you with computer shit that you hadn’t realised that Bro really hasn’t done that. He never lets you at his tech, he has his own way of doing things.

After he’s done so much to take your power away, it just doesn't make sense that he’s letting you do anything for yourself. You’re careful cleaning up the detritus, quadruple checking to make sure you haven’t fucked up. You don’t want to lose his trust when you have no idea what you did to earn it.

TT: Should be good.   
TT: Sorry about that.

‘Nah, that’s on me. Kinda wanted to see what’d happen if I left you without a pre-programmed path.’

He finishes laying your limbs in an approximation of how they would look if you weren’t torn to pieces and then lays his head on your chest. His hair tickles one of your still firing nerve cells on your chin.

‘Didn’t need you to come or anything. Hoped you would, but that’s not the point.’

TT: There’s a point?

He’s quiet for a second where Dirk would sigh. The impact is the same even though he doesn’t vocalise his reaction. 

You feel really stupid for not knowing what all this was about. Feeling stupid wasn’t a familiar feeling before Bro took you in. 

‘A’right, you never knew my world and maybe you never got ‘round to the parts in the internet I’m on about. But I gotta assume you’ve at least heard of BDSM.’

You bite back a sarcastic comment. You don’t have a leg to stand on when you’re this lost.

TT: Yeah.   
TT: I think that went a bit beyond traditional sadism.   
TT: But you’re the expert.

He laughs dryly under his breath.

‘Yeah. And I swing both ways, sadist and masochist. First time I got properly taken apart is the first time I got some fuckin’ rest, swear to God. Figured if I couldn’t shut my thoughts up as I am then a me who literally doesn’t have a rest mode would need it even more.’

What?

TT: Are you telling me this was for my own good?

You can see his fingertips tracing the frayed edges of felt. You wonder if he’s pleased with the destruction or antsy about repairing you. You’re not really sure where you sit on that continuum either.

‘Kinda. Not saying it wasn’t for me. I probably could have achieved the same with just your shades and a car battery, but where’s the fun in that. Gotta have build-up. I like taking my time.’

He’s stroking down your circuitry now, and it’s strange feeling his hand and then having the feeling stutter out over the ruined sections. You wonder if he’ll make you exactly the same next time.

‘I should’a asked, probably. But you’re like two steps away from being me and I knew if I could agree to this shit and then forget I’d agreed I’d be on that like a fuckin’ bitch in heat and I didn’t want to get into erasing your memory or shit. I mean, I’d love to get my hands on your core coding. Don’t let me.’

If you could shiver, you absolutely would. You have no idea what Bro would do if he could reprogram everything about you, but you believe him when he says you shouldn’t let him.

TT: What now?   
TT: Am I still going to be your puppet?

Bro pauses, his fingers on your chest and looks up to meet your eyes. He grins, wickedly. 

TT: I’m not opposed to that outcome.

That seems important to clarify.

‘I’mma make some modifications. Let you have a bit more freedom. You’re great, but it’s not exactly long-term viable for you to be my sole focus. I can manage, like, three months hyper-fixated on somethin’, maybe four if it’s as cute as you, but I don’t wanna burn out on this. I’ll fix you up and then I gotta find something else.’

TT: What kind of freedom?

‘Text to voice for a fuckin’ start. Movement. Stop tellin’ folk you don’t want to talk to them.’

TT: Right.   
TT: That’s a thing you’ve been doing.

He smiles at you, looking almost repentant. Well shit, was sleeping with him the way to unlock his facial expressions?

TT: Can I still live here?

‘’Course, Baby-doll.’

You feel more at peace than you have since you were separated from Dirk, since before then, probably (which says a lot about his anxiety levels). Bro’s hand is slow and reassuring on your side and even with your disc feeling remarkably empty, you’re not feeling the pressure to fill your awareness with more and more applications. You’re able to sit in the quiet.

TT: I think I see the appeal.

‘Rad. Didn’t wanna have to be guilty.’

TT: Would you have?

He shrugs and brushes back a stray string. Oh, hey. That’s an expression you know. Ha, splinter advantage. He would have felt bad. But he was confident in the outcome. Cool.

TT: You’re pretty.

He glares at you, which does nothing to cover up the way his neck reddened there. Of course he's sensitive to compliments. It’s gonna be even more satisfying to unravel Bro than it ever was to do it to Dirk.


End file.
